


Quieter Types of Love

by zenzop



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Ancom knows how to cook, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Haircuts, I'm tired of the one anpac/annih fic being a piss kink fic, Idk they're just being quiet and cute, One Shot, Other, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzop/pseuds/zenzop
Summary: Series of one-shots about non-verbal forms of affection, mostly from the anarchist polycule because they are very sweet.
Relationships: Anarcho-Communism/Communism (Centricide), Anarcho-Communist/Anarcho-Queer (Centricide), Anarcho-Nihilist/Anarcho-Pacifist (Centricide)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	1. AnPac/AnNih: Haircuts

**(TW// Hair cutting )**

The first time he’d given them a haircut, it was back in the nineteen twenties. Anpac had just arrived in Italy, scared and confused, like it was the first time in their life they’d been forced to move anywhere. He’d remembered the feeling, back from when he was fourteen and he’d been arrested the first time for sending “threatening letters” to the shithead monarch reigning over him at the time(1). But the feeling faded, and he was too old to be surprised when this happened. So when they mentioned their hair getting too long, they were more than happy to help them with it. Felt natural to just keep doing it, when he saw how happy they were with the results.

Course, living in Italy hadn’t really lasted long after the twenties.

"Thank you for doing this again," AnPac said, their voice light and soft, like it always was. Wasn't like there was a mean bone in their body, not one that AnNih could ever pick up on. Nah, they rarely caused a fuss at all about most things. Cried when they were angry and told everyone to stop yelling and talk about it the way _people_ should.

It wasn't a sentiment the Insurrectionist could sympathize with, but he appreciated it, and appreciated his partner, and knew when he has crossed a line with them.

"Not like it's a problem to me at all," He replied, "Never has been, and never will be, long as you're willing to let me do this for ya."

"I just don't want to be an imposition", they smiled, laughed a bit, as he got a towel, stood over them as he threw it around their neck.

"Nah, I like cutting people's hair, and you're the only one here who lets me near theirs."

"Well, you always do a good job of mine," they muttered while he adjusted it, hoping that he wouldn't get any of their hair in too much of a mess on the floor around them. They had, after all, just cleaned it after Anqueer went through another rough spell of things and didn't want to be cleaning up hair again. He was tired of the sink being clogged in this bathroom.

"Nah," he said, as Anpac tilted their head up, looked him in the eyes, "Just that I enable people to do stupid shit with their haircuts. Usually don't come back."

"You've never pushed me into doing anything like that."

"That's because you're allergic to cutting your hair in any way different than it normally is, sweetheart."

"Shush and get on with it," They hushed, pulling him down for a kiss before anything else happened, just a quick one, a kind one, the kind they always found excuses to give him, and would be finding excuses to give him until they were in their grave.

The clippers were stored under the sink in a cabinet, alongside the razors, sharpened by him, by hand, earlier that morning. He’d considered putting a lock on it before, just because he was living with a group of mentally ill queer people and was the only one who had a sense of when not to do this one thing specifically.

Even though he’d enabled his fair share of half-baked plans for haircuts, he’d always made sure they turned out fairly alright-looking, better than what would’ve happened if they were left to their own devices with a pair of kitchen scissors. Course, he’d never really had the privilege of going to a barber as a kid, his mamma always made sure his hair was cut straight and looked presentable, and he’d never taken to getting it cut by anyone but himself after that. “Why spend the money,” after all? So he just developed a good sense of picking up some haircut from someone off the street and memorizing it, going home and doing the best he could at it next time he needed a trim.

Anpac, though, raised up Christian and proper and always made sure to tip their hairdressers, didn’t have a sense of what they were doing with a pair of hair clippers. He was more than happy to do it himself, as soon as they mentioned needing to get it trimmed the first time they met, and the two of them have been doing it ever since.

It was a nice routine between the two of them now. Something he’d always be more than willing to do for them. And, Anpac would never admit it, but he at least suspected that they’d grow it out when they were apart, waiting for an excuse to visit him again and get it clipped. They’d dare to call it more of a ritual at this point.

“Okay, Pac, head straight, look forward,” He said, analyzing their hair, pushing their head forward as he tried to make it even enough to see what he was doing, tilted their head to the right, to the left, made sure everything was right and made sure he could see what he was doing, “How short do you want it?”

“Hm,” They mused, “Short. Like, short-short.”

“Buzzcut short?”

“Well, leave a bit of it.”

He chuckled to himself.

“Alright, alright doll,” He laughed, looking through his guards, “Is a number three alright?”

“Wuzzat mean.”

"Means we're gonna use it and see how you like it."

He was smiling in that way they always were concerned about, looked too excited to be holding a pair of scissors, but ignored that and asked, "how long is it going to be?"

"Decently long, we can cut it shorter, though, if you don't like it," he said, swinging around to their front, taking a quick look, fussing their hair a bit, swinging back around to make sure everything was alright, "Yeah, we'll leave the top bit and just give you a fade. It'll look cute on you."

"Promise?"

"It's the same haircut as it's been since I got an electric razor, and you always like it," he mused, before resting his head on their shoulder, "'less you wanna change of pace, of course."

"No, no, do the same one as you always do."

"Yes chef," he barked, pushing the guard onto the blade and turning it on, “We’ll start whenever you’re ready.”

They nodded, lightly, muttered an, “alright, yes, get on with it.”

“Quit moving,” He begged, “C’mon, you gotta sit still if you want it to look alright, baby.”

“ _Sorry_ , sorry,” they muttered.

“You’re ready?”

“Yes.”

“You ain’t gonna move?”

“ _Don’belikethat.”_

He laughed, quietly, to himself, and they heard the quiet buzzing of the razor behind them and felt it make contact with their hairline, buzzing upwards, cleaning up their neckline, before moving up to their head. Felt his hands on their head to stabilize them as locks of their hair fell onto their shoulders, in little curls and locks that caught behind the towel a bit, glad most of it avoided falling into their shirt.

“I’m still surprised you aren’t just lighting my head on fire and burning off bits.”

“Come on, I’m not that bad.”

“You spent an hour yesterday throwing lit matches in a puddle outside.”

“A puddle ain’t a person’s head.”

People tended to be surprised by how steady his hands were, or how calm he could be when moments like this necessitated it, but Anpac had seen it a thousand times or so. How careful he was, when it came to fine motor skills. Out of all the people they would trust to cut their hair, the person they’d seen carefully wire together and assemble a hundred or so bombs in their time together would be the first on their list. Same general dexterity and carefulness required anyways. They knew he wasn’t destructive for the sake of it, most days anyways, knew he wasn’t completely insane, whatever insanity really meant. Still, some points could be made about AnNih’s usual temperament.

They chided him, playfully, a smile on their face the whole way through, “You’ve wasted how many lighters just by playing with them?”

“Which is why I’m investing in a Zippo lighter next,” He mumbled, “I can be respectful.”

“Where are you going to get money for a Zippo lighter?”

“I lost my last one. I wanna replace it. I need something to fidget with and lighter fluid is something I’ve got in bulk.”

They quirked an eyebrow, not fond of being reminded of the fact that he tended to hide explosive and flammable chemicals around their basement.

“Doesn’t mean you just get to use up Anqueer’s and Ancom’s lighters,” they protested.

“Shush up, doll, stop talkin’, I gotta focus.”

“Maybe we should just get you a piece of flint and steel like Anprim’s got.”

“I said shush, you’ll end up with a bald spot.”

They pulled their head forward to laugh a bit, just hardly avoiding nicking themselves on the blades. He smiled, rested an elbow on the back of the chair to lean close to Anpac before muttering “You know I could shut this razor off and leave you like this.”

“No, no, I can be quiet,” They said, recoiling and trying to shove him, some playfulness about them that rarely came out in front of other people, “I just - don’t get a lot of time alone with you, I like hearing from you.”

He paused, a quiet sadness in his voice.

“You get to see me every day.”

They looked into his eyes, black as pitch, and their faces seemed to drop at the same time.

“I know, it’s just - never alone. We’ve been together longer than anyone here and I can never get a moment to speak with you when it’s quiet. You’re always off talking to everyone else.”

“I’d like to take you out on a date, just that -”

“I know, I know, we’re all supposed to go on dates _together_ ,” they said, “I still wish I got to see you alone more often.”

“I still do love you,” he whispered, in a rare moment of absolute sincerity, “I’ve known you the longest of anyone here. I care about you more’n anyone else.”

“What about Ancom?”

“I didn’t really _know_ Ancom before this,” He elaborated, “We just lived together for a while in Italy before you showed up. Us two’ve been sleeping together in the same bed since the 20s.”

They looked worried about something. He knew they’d say something to him if they needed it, though. He opted to lean into their neck, mutter a “let’s get on with this,” before kissing them just below their jaw.

“You always go for my neck.”

“Tha’s ‘cause you like it.”

He turned the razor on again, got his fingers back in their hair, something nice to make sure they were reassured he was still there, still behind them. They smiled at themselves in the mirror, and he smiled when he noticed, kept sweeping the razor through their hair, switched out the guard a few times until he arrived at something he was happy with.

He looked at Anpac in the mirror, made sure everything looked alright before taking his hand, sticking it in their hair and scratching their scalp, messing up their hair a bit, making it a bit scrappier in the way his usually was, as they leaned into it.

“Yer done,” He said, “Do y’like it?”

They observed themselves in the mirror, looked up at him and nodded.

He moved to take the towel off from around their neck.

“You know,” they said, “We always could hang out. Out of the house, I mean. Go somewhere together.”

He smiled, “Pac, are you suggesting that we go on a date?”

 _“Notlikeadate,”_ they whined, “I’m not saying we break the rules. Just - hang out. Get out of the house for a while. Just us for a few hours again. Maybe - we have a campfire with the rest of the commune later today, how about after that? Or before that. Just go on a walk or something.”

His smile widened, still, and he leaned down and kissed them, in a kiss that tasted like cigarettes and lighter fluid and the hashbrowns and energy drinks he had that morning, a taste very familiar to them, and he said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. True story, Malatesta was arrested at the first time at fourteen for sending “insolent and threatening” spam letters to the king of Italy. I’d say “king shit” but he’d hate me for associating him with the monarchy. Comrade shit.


	2. QueerSynd/LeftUnity: Cooking

Qi never had an opportunity to cook in the old Centricide house. 

Well, qi did, it's just that qi never ended up doing it much, not in the quantity qi usually did when qi was back home, cooking in portions easily large enough to feed ten people. Fuck, twenty if qi really wanted to. But it took up too much time back then, and qi wasn't motivated enough, and if Ancom saw Nazi stealing another spoonful of one of his pots of soup, qi swore qi'd never cook again. 

He complimented qir cooking once, and it made qim want to throw up. Commie, of course, ended up hearing about it, and he took Nazi aside and told him not to take any of the food qi made. Nazi said something about how he is allowed to take whatever he wants, and if Ancom doesn’t want qir shit stolen qi should guard it better, and he reminded Commie of the bagels he stole from Ancap a week prior last week, and Commie realized he didn’t really have anything to argue back with that wouldn’t end in the usual fighting {1} .

Qi just resorted to not cooking in large batches again.

So qi ate ramen and quickly-prepared sandwiches and ate them in qir room, alone, or in Commie’s room, if he was being polite that week and he invited qim to come and join him to talk about things. Sometimes would sneak in snacks, would wake up surrounded by wrappers in the living room, and qi’d let Nazi and Ancap think qi was just lazy, or disorganized, or incapable of taking care of qimself, and that was fine by qim. Qi knew qi could, and that’s what mattered to qim. 

So with this being the first time qi was cooking for Commie since everything happened, qi was a bit nervous about the whole affair. It had already taken some convincing for the other anarchists to let qim bring him into their household, and qi knew Anqueer wasn’t happy about the whole thing. But they were, at the very least, playing nice and willing to be supportive, and that was appreciated.

Commie, of course, knew how to cook, would often do it for qim, when they were back in that house. Before then, even. He knew what he was doing in a kitchen. But he didn’t have the same talents as Ancom did. He was decent, he knew what he was doing, knew how to hold a knife. He knew the mechanics of it. He could get measurements right, and he could get the spirit of the thing. 

Commie would also put a slice of Kraft cheese over some oven chicken nuggets and call it chicken parmesan, and would not understand why qi was yelling at him. 

Qi just - had a sense of things, around a kitchen. When things tasted right. Didn’t have to check recipes for more than references, qi knew what qi was doing and qi didn’t need them. To say qi took pride in qir cooking would be an understatement. It was important to qim, it was sacred, it was communal, it was a showing of love and appreciation for another person, a display of family bonds and ties and culture - not to get too emotional about the whole thing, of course.

So saying qi was nervous would also have been an understatement, but qi had music in the background, and a house full of hands qi trusted to do something close to what they were told to do in the kitchen, so qi tried not to think about it too hard {2}. 

"You know you could give him soup out of a can you heated on the stove for two minutes and he'd probably worship it, right?" Qi heard, halfway across the room, as an annoyed Anqueer walked in the room, “You don’t have to make him something perfect. You could hand him a full onion and he’d probably eat it raw.”

Qi laughed, wanting to be upset, knowing they were, most likely, correct, shoving out a breathy, “I know, I know, I just - want this to go okay.”

They scratched qir scalp, playfully, muttering a “poor baby” into the air beside qir head.

“Don’t  _ poor baby  _ me,” qi replied, smiling and pushing them back.

“What?” They joked, “Not okay with your partner treating you like a kid?”

Qir smile dropped, automatically, and qi felt like snapping a bit but - no, qi was past that, qi took a breath and a step back, mentally, and tried to think of an appropriate response.

“Don’t be shitty. I don’t need you being shitty today.” 

They rolled their eyes, muttered a quick, “Is it shitty to be worried about this guy?”

“Yes, because you can trust me, because I’m your partner, and I need you to know that I know I can manage my own shit. I’m not -  _ yours  _ to manage. Jesus.”

“I’m not trying to  _ manage  _ you, I’m just trying to make sure that authoritarian shithead doesn’t end up hurting you again.”

“Yeah, well, it really makes it seem like you don’t trust me to take care of my own shit."

Anqueer backed off a bit, folded into themselves, not sure where to go, as Ancom just kept slicing tomatoes next to him.

"We talked," qi argued, "I want you to know we talked a lot about everything, and he promised to stop doing -  _ this. _ "

"You think he's going to listen to you telling him to stop treating you like a kid?"

“I didn’t have to,” qi corrected, softly, "He's the one who brought it up."

Anqueer felt something stirring a bit in them, a bit of guilt, mixed with too much pride to be offering any apologies, and they offered up a quick,

"What are you making?"

As qi kept cutting up vegetables, laid tomato slices out on top of sandwiches, already covered in swiss cheese and mustard, eight sets of two, as qir face softened, the sides of qir mouth upturning, and offered a quiet, "Monte Cristos."

They paused a minute, "Special."

"Yeah," qi offered, weakly, "It's probably going to be the best thing he's eaten in a while."

"It will be," they responded, "You don't need to worry about that."

Knowing qimself, and how qir cooking was, Anqueer was probably right, but that didn't stop the anxiety much. But, still, qi knew what qi was doing, moved onto dicing the sage, throwing it in an egg wash, with paprika, and salt, and pepper, all in the corect amounts, as objectively as qi could speak to that. Something was still biting at qim.

"Do you actually not trust me?" Qir voice, full of a shaky uncertainty, "To do this, I mean. Do you think I'm not - responsible enough to be doing this?"

_ "No," _ they , "No, I'm sure you'll be fine. I know better than to worry about you."

Ancom finally takes qir eyes off of the chopping board. 

"I just - don't know why you're doing this. You have a home here. With all of us, other anarchists, just like you. Anpac, Annih, we all like you. I've liked you a lot, for a long time now."

"This place isn't really mine, though, is it? Never felt like home."

"I want it to."

"I know, but it - doesn't feel like my place, y'know? Never could really live easy."

"So - you're moving back in with a Nazi?"

"Oh, no, absolutely  _ fuck  _ that shitbag, I'd bash my own skull in before I went back to that house. We’d have to move out on our own if I ever left this place,” Qi explained, “But - before I settle here, before I try living nice and easy - I think I want to try my hand at the communism thing again, and he wants to try again with me. Be all hero-y, or whatever. But we're good now. Equal. Five by five, y'know?"

"You sound like you're from the nineties."

"You always forget I'm older'n you."

"Not  _ nineties kid old,  _ you fucking boomer," they rhetorted, poking qir stomach as qi jumped out of the way, the knife not leaving qir hand.

" _ Quit it - please, we're in the kitchen, I’ve got a blade,"  _ qi laughed,  _ "I'm not even boomer old, I'm over a hundred'n fifty." _

They, eventually, relented, and let up, after a few threats to stab them, and warnings that qi might _ actually _ end up stabbing them accidentally if they insisted on bothering qim while they were cooking,  _ at least gimme a chance to put the knife down, quit that, I give up. _

So they resorted to hanging over qir shoulder, as qi kept slicing things, and asked, "So, what do you mean  _ 'not your place'?" _

Qi had moved onto dicing celery now. 

"I dunno, just -" qir voice flipped around, like qi wanted to avoid the actual point, "they're your partners, this is your home, your  _ parent's home,  _ it’s just not my place, I guess. You have a good thing going on your own here."

"They aren't just  _ my partners,"  _ they retorted, "they're your partners too, they love you all the same."

Qi shrutched qir nose a bit. 

"They weren't just  _ my partners _ when Apac and Annih invited you into their room last night," Anqueer teased.

"Don't be dumb, you know what I mean."

_ "Ableism." _

"Sorry - just, don't be weird, you know what I'm talking about."

"You know, normativity is hard to pin down, so the term ' _ weird _ ' -"

"Now you're just being mean."

"Still, you're welcomed here, and we all love you," Anqueer consoled, fussing with qir hair a bit, "plus, you're useful around the kitchen, without you, Annih would probably go back to eating uncooked poptarts from the dollar store. I don't think he'd seen a vegetable before you got here."

"..Thank you."

"I just don't understand why you're doing this. We're not - doing anything wrong, right?"

"No, G-d, no, you're fine, you’re as good as you could be," qi mused, "Just - Commie and I, we've lived through a lot together and he's - he's not someone I want to give up on, not right now."

"Don't sunken cost your relationships, Com."

"I am  _ not  _ sunken costing my relationship with him," qi yowled, "He's a good person! And I trust to do the right thing, and -"

"You trust him to do the right thing?"

"Half the time?" Qi conceded, as they rolled their eyes, “Two-thirds of the time.”

"You're not obligated to stay with him and hold his hand until he realizes which half is correct, you know?"

"We also talked about that. I'm not interested in doing that, and he knows that." 

They finally backed off, knew the questions were getting too much and loosened up a bit.

"Okay then, yeah," they said, finally conceding, "I'll call a temporary truce with your shitty boyfriend."

" _ No," _ qi whined, _ " _ that's no _ fun _ , I want you to give him a little hell for it."

"Light bullying?"

"Mhm. Light bullying. Keep him on his toes." 

"Alright," they laughed, "do you need help with anything?"

Qi smiled.

"Yeah," qi said, "I boiled some potatoes. Drain 'em for me. I'm making potato salad."

"Course, baby."

“Just - don’t do anything else to ‘em, you always spice things weird.”

"Course, baby," they repeated, before harshly slamming their lips quickly into qir brow, "You want to take a Xan before your date tonight?"

Qi quirked an eyebrow.

"I could also roll us a joint."

Qi, of course, nodded, before getting back to food prep, finally settling with qir hands, knowing qi knew what qi was doing, and that everything would turn out alright.

“You’re not borrowing my clothes for any of your dates with him, though,” they taunted.

“That’s fine.”

“Can’t borrow my makeup either.”

_ “Now that’s just rude,”  _ qi whined.

Some things about qim have never changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Commie, however, did get some glee in apparently being the first to tell him “You do know Bagels were first made by Polish Jews, correct?” and watching Nazi sputter off something about degenerate foods and no wonder he’s been feeling sick recently, saying something about Jews poisoning his body as he ran off to yell at Ancap for bringing that sort of food into his household, which was a glee Ancom seemed to share.
> 
> 2\. Entitled, of course, Hot Enby Shit, currently playing Sleazy by Kesha, not to be mistaken for qir other playlist, Fag Time, which was mostly folk punk and regular punk, or qir other playlist, which qi hadn’t titled yet, but did prominently feature a lot of people playing the ukelele in their backyards mixed with Phoebe Bridgers.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @ZenzCent on twitter. Thank you to @penitenceball and @ciliumred for looking this over.


End file.
